Life is full of unexplainable things. But, moreover, it is full of me. To be better heard, I repeat, ladies: it is full of me. From this you will deduce that I too am one of those unexplainable things, irremediably unexplainable. You are wrong, ladies, you are wrong like some weeds that think it rains when a cow urinates over them. You are some weeds too. When God shouts, or vice versa, you think I'm yelling, and you applaud. Ladies: the time has come for you to re-educate yourselves. And when I yell to applaud, saying: God shouts, or vice versa, or as you like it. I give up any attempt to completely clarify my syllogisms because I disregard logic. Or, more precise, I believe only in my own logic. My own logic… yes, an admirable title for a book that I won't write, for want of mindful and subtle readers.
As I've said about myself that I am smart, it is again up to me to say whenever I want, at every hour (at a quarter past seven, for example), that I am stupid. But that's not for the reasons for which you wag your tail, growling when I say that I am smart. No, here as well, as for every man. I have my own reasons. I am stupid when I think that there are still smart people beside myself. I am stupid when I am still thinking that smartness is any good. Is Iorga not smart? You will answer: sure, a thousand times, one thousand eight hundred seventy-six times smarter than you, you cracked monkey! No, ladies, lorga is as stupid as any of you. And 10,000,000,000,000 times more stupid than me for he still believes that smartness is good for something else than to fool the stupid. The devil, ladies, is devilishly smart. Yet, has he ever been in God's good graces?
I feel how you get all puffed up having heard all this. Ah, that means that smartness isn't any good. If Iorga is as stupid as we are then we are as smart as he is. But what's noticeable is that we are as stupid. We are many. Iorga is one. And no matter how smart he would be, he can't match wits will us all. We swallow him. Thus, to what good is smartness? No, ladies, that's not it. Again, as always, you are wrong. You, all together, could swallow me. How could you resist me separately?
But all this arithmetic is boring. I am smart because I do not believe in smart people or in smartness, I am more cunning than the devil because I'll be able to fool God, by doing penance. You can cheer me, spit on me, worship me or lynch me. My substance is small, indivisible. And anyway, I am the same. Thus, ladies, do what you want with me, for anyway you can not destroy me.
Life is full of me, me and the rest depend on me. Don't read me anymore, leave me alone, and go to hell, with Iorga, with … Maximilian and with all your smart people.
meridian, caetul şapte, 1934